


A Study in Cuisine

by zephryin (zephyrin)



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrin/pseuds/zephryin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherly helps the FBI with a bit of a problem they've been having.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've written quite a bit, but not for public consumption so I thought I'd say this: I'm a voracious reader, and have read both Sherlock and Hannibal canon(s). Also a huge fan of not just the current shows but the older ones as well (Granada, of course!). This AU follows them loosely but twists the facts to my convenience and occasionally just plain makes stuff up. Fiction, yes? :) Hope you enjoy.

Sherlock was content.

The case had been perfect: tricky and engaging, but in the end no match for him. No serious threatening of life and limb in the process. For now, he could rest in the cessation of the constant deep itch of boredom and banality. He took a moment to center, and practiced a quick set of qi-gong breathing techniques that brought the deep pool of calm sharply to the forefront of his attention, allowing him to bask in the silence.

The edges of calm were already regrettably starting to thin by the time he reached the flat. The door was unlocked quickly with the ease of long practice as Sherlock bounded up the stairs to quiet of his rooms. The flat without John had been an unwelcome distraction for quite awhile, but being back on his own certainly had it's advantages and he tried not to think about how hard he had to focus on them and ignore the constant mutter that was telling him the darkened rooms were wrongwrongwrongwrong.

Before he even had a chance to check on the status of his enzyme reaction, his phone beeped. His central calm receded more under the onslaught of irritation, and thumbed up the text with more force than necessary.

Lestrade 16:52:  
You around?

Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing.

Me 16:53:  
Define around. Vague.

Lestrade 16:55:  
Sherlock. Are you at the flat?

Me 16:55:  
Yes. Are you going to arrive at the door wrapped in cellophane? Please say no.

Lestrade 16:57:  
I'll be there shortly.

Sherlock promptly turned back to his protein testing. Lestrade's purposeful stomping up the stairs came less than ten minutes later. Important, then. Sherlock had had plenty of time to start the next reaction stage of his enzyme purification, and was ready to give Lestrade his attention. While he was hopeful for something interesting, past performance dictated that he'd likely not even need to leave the flat after he fit together the pieces of the evidence. But, to be fair, Lestrade was learning. Sherlock had far fewer dull cases over the last year than he had had in the years prior to John, and Lestrade had mentioned here and there that he had mentally "installed a Mini-Sherly program" based on Sherlock’s methods and was learning not to just see but observe...and if he failed at that, Mini-Sherly was there to call him a prat. Lestrade looked so pleased over this foolishly simple memory trick (and stupid name) that Sherlock didn't even bother to react other than lift a brow. Annoyingly, this did little to dampen Lestrade’s good humor. However, as a positive result, Lestrade had been in the papers more, assuring himself a raise, undoubtedly--and he was bringing Sherlock the more interesting cases, which made Sherlock less annoyed when the texts arrived.

Greg entered the flat immediately after a brief knock. That was typical. The look on his face was not. A brief glance told Sherlock most of what he needed to know about the type of day Lestrade had been having--tired eyes (date last night), stress down a few notches from usual (good date, then), and then the usual mélange that was Greg: bachelor, poor diet, hung to the left, too much coffee, and an eagerness to fix the world that was as earnest as it was misguided. And either he had gotten a cat (allergies, doubtful) or his new girlfriend had one.

"I thought you were allergic to cats." Sherlock had zero use for small talk.

  
Lestrade paused, taken aback (after all these years, still?). "Um, yeah, I am. Amazing what a bit of antihistamine can do. Anyway...we were at my place." Uncharacteristically, he moved straight on "Listen, Sherlock. I got a call. From the States, actually...DC area. I met a FBI officer about ten years ago at a terrorism conference, right after the attack on the Twin Towers. We got along pretty well, still keep in touch once in a while. Anyway, he wants to know if you'd be interested in investigating a case. Obviously, it's very unusual, serial killer...they've got their guy, but he insists despite the evidence that he was set up. He's....he's..." and here Greg paused. "He's one of theirs, Sherlock. Brilliant. Damaged. Considered one of the best profilers in the States. All the evidence indicates it was him. He's been borderline psychotic for years. His "gift" is a two edged sword. But Crawford...well, Jack Crawford is a mystery unto himself in the FBI but it's no secret that Will was one of his special weapons, and Crawford used him harder than he was supposed to. I think...I think Crawford needs to know, for sure, that Will did it. And if he didn't, Sherlock, than there's a serial killer loose on the Eastern Seaboard for you to hunt up. "

"Impossible. I’m busy."

"Impossible? Sherlock, I know you'd need to travel and that isn't your favorite, but Jesus man...you would be PAID to hunt a serial killer, and the FBIs got more cash to toss at this stuff than we do here. Think of it as...Christmas vacation. With your bonus being a big fat check at the end...that you'd undoubtedly lose, causing John or I to have to call and get a new one issued."

"Despite my abhorrence of public travel, Giles, that is not the reason. Mary is due in four weeks. It's not an acceptable time to leave. She's vulnerable and John is concerned that the past...issues...may resurface."

"GREG, Sherlock, Jesus!" Sherlock smiled inwardly at this...it was a running joke that Lestrade had yet to catch up on. So easy to get him to rise to the bait. "I told him now may not be the best time. Well. Maybe in a few months you can give it a thought if all is well here, okay? I think they are genuinely at a loss." Here Greg paused, and Sherlock had time to take a deep breath and close his eyes briefly in anticipation. "Say...why don't we run down to the corner and grab a pint? I've been dying for one all day."

"Social convention dictates that I tell you I'd love to, alas, I have approximately 23 minutes left on my current test and my products will need to be spun down and prepped for electrophoresis, so as you can see, I've a busy night ahead of me. The DNA prep alone will take several hours."

He turned back to the kitchen, and heard a sigh and the door close gently. And the flat was blissfully quiet again.

Mycroft 21:04:  
You've been requested, dear brother.

Me 21:06:  
I told Greg no. No. I'm sure you have a semi-competent lackey that can manage.

Mycroft 21:07:  
You've been requested. Specifically. John and Mary will be carefully watched.

Mycroft 21:08:  
And of course you'll have full contact with John via mobile. You know that.

Mycroft 21:14:  
Quit being a child. I'll be at your flat at 8 sharp. Be there, Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was contemplating the results of the DNA testing when the door opened. Eight o'clock on the dot. Predictable.

"Morning, Sherlock." Mycroft loomed over the prone figure on the sofa. "Well rested? You've a long day today." His eyes took in the rumpled clothing and glared out an "I doubt it.". Sherlock stood in one quick motion made with precision and grace. It was beautiful. He should know. He practiced for three sessions lasting approximately 15 minutes each last night, John's old mirror propped against the kitchen table...practiced until the movement was smooth and natural. The slight pull back of his head, an almost imperceptible widening of Mycroft's eyes brought immense satisfaction to Sherlock. For a moment, his eyes fractionally relaxed and cheeks twitched slightly at the joy of it. Mycroft caught the tell, and his own eyes narrowed in annoyance. "It's lovely that you have time to practice raising "dramatic" to an art form, dear brother, but some of us actually have to work and I don't have all day--Syria is not going to fix itself, regretfully." He hefted the large file from under his arm and dropped it on John's...the extra chair. Sherlock hated to admit the pang of eagerness that that sound brought him...it was heavy...photos...lots of photos, and files, some that were almost 4 centimeters thick... He was already trying to figure out how he could manage to read this on the plane without causing another incident ("Sherlock! You CANNOT look at pictures of m-u-r-d-e-r-s in front of CHILDREN. PUT IT AWAY!" John, in his most vehement, furious hiss.)

Yes, it's a rather interesting case, Sherlock. You'll be working with some of the brightest in the FBI, and the people they consider advisers. Even you might find a challenge in that circle. Because one of them is a killer. And he likes it, Sherlock...he fancies himself quite the artist. Obviously that is only a small portion of the files that will be available at headquarters, but I found the points it contains salient and, sadly for Will Graham, quite solid evidence of his involvement in a large number of unsolved murders, culminating in the death of a young woman Will knew named Abigail, who was also a murderer."

Sherlock sniffed. As if. One never knew the salient points until all the facts were laid out, bare, stripped of everything insignificant, until only the Truth was exposed--the bones in the dirt. He pulled a file of his own out from under the pillow he had rested on. "John and Mary need to be watched. These are the people who have recently entered their circle that I don't trust. There may be more, obviously. Do not. Fail me. At this." He met his brother's eyes...let him see His Core Self...the one who talked Jim Moriarity into the barrel of a gun. A subtle shift in Mycroft’s shoulder, the slightest tilt of the head. Not upset, not frightened. Proud? Yes. Perversely, proud to see what Sherlock was...his bones, his Truth. The slightest nod, indicating, for once--finally--the acknowledgement of an equal.

 

***************************************

By noon, Sherlock had talked to John about the situation—Mary out shopping, apparently (“Anthea, we need to stop at the Watson's before leaving. I insist. Or I simply will not be on that flight.” Anthea shrugging, not even bothering to look up from her phone.) and was on a chartered flight to Washington with some dignitary or another who had an emergency meeting with one of the embassies. John’s face was stony at being left behind, but there was simply no way he was going to be available. “Sherlock, I don’t care who you are a prick to, but you get back here in one piece, are we clear?” Going without John was certainly a disadvantage…the perfect wall to bounce ideas off, he was the heart of their duality, often seeing the emotional clues that Sherlock mistakenly dismissed outright in the guard against sentimentality. A bother, but not crippling.

 

The advantage to the charter, of course, was no children. In fact, he was left completely alone other than the occasional check by the attendant. By the time he landed, Sherlock was fairly certain the killer wasn’t Will Graham. He needed to see the full files. He needed to see Will’s medical report in full. And he needed to talk to Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom, Hannibal Lector, and of course, Will himself. Four days, maximum.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Crawford met him on the tarmac. Sherlock had his carry-on in one hand and the file in the other. Crawford was immediately recognizable from photos in the file. There had been more information in the folder than just Will Graham's case information…Mycroft had given him a distinct advantage there, but even so the air of dignity Crawford wrapped around himself did nothing to hide the tightness around his eyes and general exhaustion that Sherlock attributed to a high-stress job and a terminal wife.

  

“Sherlock, welcome. I appreciate you taking the time to give us your perspective.” Very well, obviously they were going to pretend Sherlock had a choice in the matter. Crawford shook his hand, meeting his eyes in an indication of warmth, though any real emotion was kept firmly in check. Even so, Sherlock could see the hope and desperation there—for or against Will Graham, Crawford wanted resolution.

 

“I will need complete access to the case files. I’d like to start there. Tomorrow, I’d like to be able to talk to Alana Bloom and you. I will need access to Will and Dr. Lector as well. My partner John Watson may have some questions for the medical doctor who saw Will after his arrest, I insist he’s treated with the same open sharing of information as myself--I assume Mycroft filled you in. First, files. Knowing what questions to ask will save all of us some time. If any of the crime sites are still isolated, I’d like to see those as well.”

 

Crawford looked slightly taken aback, but rebounded almost instantly. Good, not having to dance around social construct would save time. “There is a suite on-site that we have put aside for you, same building as the file room for this case. Mycroft indicated that this would be advantageous for you.” He handed Sherlock a security card. “This accesses the suite and the case room. There is also a fully stocked laboratory adjoining the suite. You will be given a phone number that will directly contact a FBI staff person for anything you may need—whether it be personal items, food, or chemicals. We’ll be there in less than a half hour, that gives you the rest of this evening and let’s say tomorrow morning to aquatint yourself with the details--I'm sorry to say that no crime scenes are still available, but in that you may find Will a detailed source, in his own way. I’ll make time for you tomorrow afternoon, and also check with Dr. Bloom about her availability. Dr. Lector has already asked to meet you over supper Wednesday—he’s a superlative cook, I’ve never had meals as fine as those that come out of his kitchen. He’s a damn good psychiatrist, but he may be an ever finer chef.”

 

 *********************************

 

The room designated as the case HQ was more than adequate for Sherlock’s' needs. Along with boxes of files, there was a comfortable chair, a laptop, tablet, and a sofa with pillows. His personal suite was far more extensive than needed. The bathroom was stocked with basics, including, Sherlock noted, two boxes of nicotine patches. Mycroft telling tales again, it appeared. Annoying, but possibly useful. The suite was less than a fifteen second walk to the case room, so within five minutes of Crawford "getting him comfortable" and finally leaving, Sherlock was on the sofa reviewing the first file box.

 

By 2:00 a.m., Crawford had called twice. Sherlock ignored the first call, but answered the second with his irritation barely constrained--surprisingly, Crawford kept it short and let him get back to it, not something Sherlock had entirely expected from someone so clearly used to running the show. John had texted him to remind him to eat (Obligingly, Sherlock made a cup of tea and made use of the fruit and biscuits obviously out for that purpose.). And Sherlock had reviewed most of the file boxes. The original murders stood alone--straightforward and dull, for the most part--Sherlock had read three then ignored them. The mushroom farm was interesting, the murderer clearly psychotic...after years of crime scenes the twisted paths the brain could take was never surprising, but the extremes were always fascinating. It was the mimicking of those cases where things got interesting, and Sherlock had already easily cleared Will as a suspect. While a rather tragic figure, really the essence of why he had figured out at a very young age that emotional response was not an advantage to clear thinking, the methods Will used were certainly effective and highly honed. He had obviously learned a trick of turning the sensory overload so common in the ASD and forced it to filter only certain information, in essence becoming the murderers. It was a dangerous game to play with a mind already overloaded, and Will was paying the price. And, if Sherlock was right, there was an organic, acute issue was well that had not been properly diagnosed, and the why of that was telling indeed.

 

The walls were covered with the bulletin board material from floor to ceiling, and by 4am Sherlock was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, slowly viewing the data, removing extraneous information, bearing the bones. But the killer was careful...so very careful. Brilliant, and artistic, and very very cautious. That he was involved in the case was obvious, but Sherlock didn't think it was directly. No. Able to nudge the players on the chessboard, but never standing on it himself. Until tonight, Crawford had stood high on Sherlock’s suspect list. He had the size and the intelligence, but after meeting him, Sherlock had just about dismissed him. Crawford did not seem the type to have the artistic vision so evident in the photos. The ability to see a crime, and reproduce it...but better. Masterfully. Taking the vision of a rough idea and adding the touch of a virtuoso.

 

Alana Bloom was out as well...the murderer was not a woman--the manner of the display of some of the bodies would have required height and an almost brutal strength. But her training as a psychologist would be useful when listening to her opinion about the other players in this game. Occasionally women had intuition that pointed toward an idea that logic hasn't been able to leap to.

 

The lab orderlies …there was some potential there. The woman was out, for the same reasons Dr. Bloom was, but it wouldn’t do to ignore the two men. They were the first line for looking over the bodies, and could easily cover-up incrimination evidence…as well as plant it since they’d know exactly what procedures and tests would be involved when the bodies came in.

 

His phone beeped.

John 07:21:

Any news?

 

Me 07:22:

Thinking

 

John 07:25

Is the jet lag bad? Make sure you’re eating.

 

Me 07:28:

My sleeping habits make jet lag irreverent. Quit worrying. I will have ?s for you later. Read up on ASD if you don’t have much exposure.

 

John 07:31:

Of course.

 

Me 07:34:

Also find a symptom-checklist for various viral/bacterial disorders of the brain.

 

John 07:36:

Call me if you need to. Whenever. I’d say “don’t worry about the time” but that’s not really your strong point anyway. :)

 

Me 07:37:

Emoticons, John?

 

John 07:37:

:P

 

 

Me 07:45:

Status?

 

Mycroft 07:59:

Clear. Two quietly removed from their circle—too high risk. Three more indicated that you missed, low priority. All under control.

 

At 8:02 the phone in the case room rang. Crawford had an appointment for Sherlock to see Will at 9:00, could he be ready? Then lunch, then an interview with Dr. Bloom at 2:00 with a private lunch with Jack at noon. Excellent.

 

Sherlock showered and changed. Not having John to talk things over with was frustrating, as there was a nagging feeling of a medical condition underlying Will’s erratic behavior, but for the time being he reviewed the medical information he had while he was showering which allowed him to pinpoint some questions he may not have thought of previously. When Crawford knocked on the door at precisely 8:45, Sherlock met him with his coat on.

 

Crawford tried to have some banal conversation about his comfort, but they didn’t have time for trivialities—he needed data. “The facilities are more than adequate for my needs. When, precisely, did you notice Will’s behavior becoming more erratic than usual…when did he start having issues coping? Are Will’s dogs territorial—would they attack a stranger, or can they be calmed with verbal assurance or food? Has Will’s schedule been compared to the copycat killings?”

 

Crawford was quiet for a moment, Sherlock assumed he was organizing his answer for precision and he wasn’t disappointed: “Will never has…enjoyed…his job, despite the fact that he is almost a perfect profiler. He is deeply disturbed by entering the mind of the killers, and worries that his personality will be overtaken by theirs. I can’t say when I started knowing Will was becoming unglued. Dr. Bloom warned me months ago that he was unstable and exhibiting signs of severe stress, but she didn’t go into details. That was when we got Will involved with Dr. Lector in the hopes that he would be able to help Will both come to terms with his job and find come coping methods—Dr. Bloom didn’t feel she was able to be objective enough to be his therapist. There is an attraction there—certainly Will to her, possibly her to Will as well. His schedule has been compared with no real conclusions…because Will lives alone, his comings and goings are hard to track. There are a few that seem…unlikely, even I can admit. For example, the tower—that would have taken not only time but also would indicate that the killer has been killing for years, at least five that we can tell. I…I have a hard time believing that I could have a serial killer on my staff that long, and that it was Will, without me noticing. The physical strength required, the time it would have taken…. “ He paused. “To be honest, Sherlock, it’s the one that made me think of trying to call you over here. I can see Will Graham in a lot of compromising positions due to mental instability, but I cannot see him taking the time and energy and focus needed to create that tower. But, in his fugue states, I also have to admit is possible. The dogs…the dogs are not a problem. Beaten, terrified, abandoned…they are pathetically happy to be placated by soft words and food. They are the physical manifestation of Will’s inner psyche, according to Lector.”

 

Interesting. He was looking forward to talking with Dr. Bloom. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Dr. Lector. Focus.


	3. Chapter 3

Will Graham was waiting in a typically demoralizing beige room at the prison. Cuffed, both feet and hands since his little escape prior to capture. He sat before Sherlock, defiant and exhausted—deep circles under his haunted eyes. Will was a man who was backed against the wall, but still fighting.

“To be clear, Graham, it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether or not you committed these crimes. I’m here to find out who did as quickly and efficiently as possible. Therefore, I ask you to answer my questions, not to expound if possible, and if I tell you to stop talking, please do. Do I make myself clear?” Will simply nodded.

“When did you notice your mental acuity slipping?”

Will answered quickly and calmly, no hysterics or drama. Excellent. “As far as I can tell, about a month before I mentioned it to Alana, Dr. Bloom. I started feeling not myself, had a hard time getting my thoughts in order. It was followed by days where I felt cold and slow and generally just…ill. I realize now I probably had a fever at these times. My dreams became extraordinarily vivid, I started having a hard time telling them from reality and I’d flash back to them randomly during the day. The hallucinations started shortly thereafter, where a feathered-elk type creature appeared to be following or stalking me. This progressed to me starting to sleepwalk, which seemed to be a precursor to my fugue states where I would lost track of time. I don’t believe I was always aware of when I was having them, afterward I mean.”

After about a half hour of question and answering, Sherlock stared into the eyes of the man across from him. Will had been straightforward, honest, and did a reasonable job controlling dramatic whinging. 

And, if one took the evidence into consideration, he also sounded completely delusional. “If not you, Will, who is it?”

And Graham said a name.

******************************************

Me 10:09:  
This may get complicated. I cannot get caught up in complications. I won’t do their work for them.

Mycroft 10:10:  
Understood. Safety an issue?

Me 10:11:  
Maybe. Probably.  
*****************************************  
“Dr. Lector has invited us over tonight rather than Wednesday, he’s going to cook for us, Sherlock.” Crawford could not quite contain the satisfaction he felt at this news, his enthusiasm overcoming his stoic good sense for once since he didn’t ask how Sherlock’s interview with Will went. Well, maybe he watched it. Likely, actually. Sherlock wondered what Crawford thought about the last bit. 

Crawford, submitting to the need to be a good host, insisted on taking Sherlock out for lunch, despite Sherlock’s protests. After lunch, they drove around DC “sightseeing” until their meeting with Dr. Bloom at 2:00. Sherlock didn’t learn anything new from Crawford, other than he was typical of a high level leader: quick to exploit the talents of his team and reluctant to withdraw from a working strategy. Nothing to really consider a negative, until a “working strategy” was a team member buckling under the stress and you needed to weigh the good of one against the good of many. 

The interview with Bloom didn’t bring much to the table, but did give Sherlock some info to file away. In the tragicomic way it usually went, it appeared that not only was Will in love with Bloom, but she was more than a little in love with him as well. As a species, homo sapiens didn’t always make good biological choices…sentiment. Will had told her far more about his pathology than he had Crawford, which Sherlock had expected, but had apparently told Sherlock more than he told Alana, which, considering his feelings for her were not surprising. But it showed a willingness to speak the truth as much as he could, and that was good. Unless the actual truth was on a divergent path from Will’s version, which was still a possibility. But, being outside Will’s head, she had a much better grasp on when his decline started, far more accurate, Sherlock felt, than Crawford did. He finished up a few questions, shook hands (Why always the hand shaking? Just the microbial reasons not to on their own could fill a book.) and texted John while walking back to meet Crawford.

Me 14:49:  
Symptoms: fever—likely high, difficulty forming thoughts, time loss, spacial distortion, hallucinations, fugue states. Functional within fugue/lost time but little to no memory of events. Onset to full symptoms 4-6 weeks. Sending a file.

John 14:54:  
Give me about an hour. I’ll try to do in less.

John 15:34:  
Sherlock, I keep getting various forms of encephalitis. But he would have been hospitalized?! Any competent medical dr or psychiatrist would have picked up the symptoms and had him checked out, even if they didn’t have a clear idea of dx.

Me 15:35:  
Indeed. Any harder to dx on someone with ASD?

John 15:42:  
Not sure, let me ask in neurology. Probably not. Fever, fugue states…only in a severe autistic would these possibly be misdiagnosed. It’s rare, don’t get me wrong. But it’s usually discovered eventually because the symptoms become so extreme.

*****************************

Crawford spent the trip to Dr. Lectors house expounding with annoying detail the few dinners he had at Lector’s house. The music, the food, the wine…this was heady stuff for a man who was born to lower middle class and clawed his way to the top of the chain. However, extraneous and thereby boring information. “There’s always a wonderful selections of meat dishes…I’m so grateful he’s not one of those bleeding-heart types who don’t believe in the ‘inhumanity of meat’.” Indeed.

Lector opened the door, immaculate in a white shirt and tailored pants, shirt cuffs crisply rolled to the elbow. And a white apron. Also immaculate. Ridiculous. But interesting. Crawford enthusiastically shook hands and introduced Sherlock, and then Lector was meeting his eyes and moving forward to shake hands and it all clicked into place.

Tall, handsome. The face of an ascetic. Eyes that took in and reflected nothing. “The great Sherlock Holmes, it’s an honor to meet you.” Genuine, curious smile around a refined, Old World accent. “I’m quite a fan. I hope you brought your appetite—I am so pleased to cook for a fellow visitor from the Continent. As it were, of course.” He nodded and smiled into Sherlock’s eyes. “I hope our conversation will not detract from the culinary delights, I do hate mixing business with pleasure, and Will Graham is such a sad case, is he not? But please, I get ahead of myself, please come in.”

If Sherlock cared at all about “home aesthetic”, he’d chose a home like Lectors. Clean, quietly and richly decorated. Everything placed with deliberate precision. Lector excused himself to the kitchen to pour wine with Crawford close on his heels like an eager puppy, and Sherlock took the opportunity to move a vase an inch from its normal setting on a console in the entry. No dust. NO dust? He then followed Crawford into the kitchen. Lector invited them to sit across the large granite island from him while he continued his prep. There was obviously something in the oven…pork, likely…probably a roast, Sherlock decided. There was an undefined quality to the scent that he couldn’t put his finger on…fruity, yes, but something else. Hmm. In the meantime, he looked with appreciation at the array of bowls placed on the gleaming marble counters, watching Lector prepare a selection, then immediately clean and stack the dishes in the professional-grade dishwasher. Not a motion wasted, but distaste for anything used. Fast hands at the prep board, artistic with a knife.

With Crawford there, so obviously an adoring fan of Lectors, Sherlock felt relatively safe exploring the extent of the mind in front of him. He did not “read” like prey, and he could tell by the narrowing of eyes and the slight tension in Lector’s shoulders that he was certainly on guard. Despite this, and rather in spite of himself, he found himself enjoying the conversation. They moved smoothly from Sherlock’s work to some of Lector’s more interesting cases and back again, the conversation flowing organically. At no time was identifiable client traits, other than the general condition, brought up—Lector was imminently charming as well as professionally appropriate. Sherlock so rarely found someone on the same intellectual platform as him—well, other than Mycroft and the less mentioned there the better—that he was finding himself attracted despite all common sense as to his self-preservation. It was the fascination between two predators, that was clear. Something Sherlock had experienced before with Moriarity, but never quite on this level. 

It was, to be sure, an incredible challenge as well. To say enough, without saying too much. To not give away any more than necessary or what may be publically available. The knowledge that this man even knew John existed was reason enough to make Sherlock want to wipe him off the face of the earth—and yet, his mind was so brilliant and sharp…on a level, it would be destroying a priceless artifact. Conundrum…what to do, how to proceed. This man could not exist in his current form. He needed time to think, and he wasn’t’ going to get it here.

Crawford was prying information from Lector about the meals he had previously had here, two if Sherlock was following properly. Crawford was waxing oddly poetic about the dishes served, making a solid attempt to draw Sherlock into the conversation, but more seeming to both want to stroke Lectors…ego…and prepare Sherlock for the orgy of flavor he was going to be experiencing. Apparently not aware that Sherlock could care less…food was fuel. He never really understood the fascination. Noting again the odd note of the cooking dishes, he placed himself in the conversation abruptly, wanting to test a theory.

“So, Dr. Lector…”  
“Hannibal, please. For at least tonight, we shall be friends rather than business associates.” And the eyes met Sherlock’s with sardonic humor.

Tricky indeed.

“Hannibal, then.” He nodded at the man across the island from him. “I feel obligated to inform you that I tend to not eat, or eat lightly indeed, on a case. I would hate to cause you any hard feelings. However, I find a particular note of the scent of what I assume is the main dish cooking fascinating…I can’t say I’ve encountered it before. If it’s not a trade secret, I’d be interested in the specific ingredient you’ve added to obtain it.”

Ah hah…interesting. Lector smooth body motions paused almost imperceptibly before continuing along their path, carried forward by muscle memory, Sherlock thought. Good, this was the right question. The answer mattered little. Carefully partitioning away any emotional response to his question, Sherlock had already wondered if there weren’t a connection between Hannibal’s culinary interests and his…other hobbies. 

Hannibal’s response was cool and controlled, with no hint of any disturbance or ire. “Of course—you must have a very subtle nose.” A faint smile. “Anyone who can go days without meals (Interesting…Sherlock certainly had never said that to anyone since his arrival.) is likely not to be interested in the culinary arts, no offense intended, of course.” Another ingratiating smile. “You are probably noticing the note of blood serum that I used as a soup additive. It has a distinct, slightly sweet odor that some find disagreeable. However, it adds a velvety mouthfeel to the soup that cannot be compared. I personally don’t find it very different from the scent of good veal.”

Sherlock had never noticed any scent with any of the plasma he worked with, which means Lector was probably lying. Curious—why? 

He smiled genially, looking slightly bored by the topic. “It does beg one to wonder who comes up with this stuff, doesn’t it? I’m sure you are much more knowledgeable than me on the topic of culinary history, but I find it fascinating what people decide to include in their food and what they don’t, especially in haute cuisine." With that, Lector was off on a mini lecture for the rest of the time, obviously enjoying the chance to share some of the truly impressive depth and breadth of his passion. The conversation moved with them to the dining room, exquisitely decorated as the rest of the house, with an air of an herb garden that was explained by the really quite clever indoor herb garden contained within, ingeniously, an established field-rock wall between the kitchen and dining area. The grow lights and misters were subtle and very high-end…Sherlock concluded that the lights must be on at night, and mist nozzles set per individual plant. Quite remarkable.

Conversation eddied and flowed. The culinary lecture ended, and general small talk with subtle probes as to Sherlock’s life were quietly introduced and withdrawn, tried again in other angles. Crawford was almost completely outside of Sherlock’s focus at this point—danger from him was almost immeasurably small, and Sherlock picked at his food, as promised, avoiding anything “heavy” such as breads, meats, and carb laden choices, sticking instead with salads, fruits, and the truly excellent soup. Presentation was artfully done, with the veal cut into rosettes with a center of…something…and sauce lightly drizzled over it. Will Graham came up over dinner, and Lector’s insights into Will were remarkable and unfailingly respectful. Truly, he was a remarkable man all around, and Sherlock had to hold himself slightly apart from subtle but persistent magnetism that surrounded him. 

“I feel badly about Will—I feel with my experience I should have been able to detect his underlying psychosis. I knew he was disturbed, that is of course why he was sent to me in the first place. I have some experience with those with sensory issues, more challenging cases. Will was having a terribly difficult time reconciling the images and actions he experienced while becoming immersed. I believe the shooting of Abagail’s father, and his consequent obsession with her, marked the beginning of his decline to keep up the charade of “normalcy”, as it were, for Will. Not long after this, I told Will I would no longer see him professionally if he did not receive a brain scan as his increasingly erratic behaviors and hallucinations were becoming alarming. However, a brain scan showed no significant abnormalities.” Lector paused here, then deliberately reached for his wine, sniffing it thoughtfully before taking a drink, making the movement look organic and natural, but Sherlock was sure it was a sign of something…. He mentally stored the moment to ponder later. “Then…well. You know the rest of it, I’m sure.” He glanced at Sherlock, looking for all the world like a tired psychiatrist who had watched a client lose the battle with mental illness. Underlying all of this…Sherlock was quite sure…was a man who was deeply fond of Will Graham.

“Was Will your friend, Dr. Lector?” he asked, genuinely curious what Lector would say.

“He’s my client, Mr. Holmes.” Said Lector, not answering the question at all.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had Crawford stop at a pharmacy. He needed lip salve and some actual sugar packets, not the pink and yellow packets of chemical stuff they were so fond of here. He considered picking up some cigarettes as well, but American cigarettes were vile, from his experience, and anyway…he had promised John. Something about blood pressure and heart rate and the ever dramatic threat of “stroking out” when using them to supplement his patches. Dull.

 

Back in the cave of the case room, Sherlock shed his shoes, wrapped in a surprisingly comfortable hotel robe. Wearing socks and nothing else, the thick terry robe was currently distracting but would fade quickly into sensory brown noise. He contemplated the nicotine patch boxes, and slapped on two patches. He then considered “jet lag” and the fact that he just ate a fair amount of food and some wine was unavoidable…one more patch for good measure. He called Crawford and told him absolutely no disturbances unless absolute emergency of life or case until the morning, took a shower, texted John and Mycroft, and started to fit all the pieces together.

 

It wasn’t until the dark hours of the night that Sherlock put together what the “blood serum” in the soup had probably been from, and how he dealt with his violet reaction to this flash of insight was his own business.

 

He craved John’s presence in the dark hours after his revelation, but only allowed himself minimal awareness of the fact. Filling himself with the case left him no time to feel empty.

 

******************

A breakfast tray arrived at 7:30 the next morning…not to Sherlock’s room, but to the case-file room. A creamy envelope was nestled amongst the Belgian waffles, fruit plate, and fresh orange juice. Sherlock had absolutely no interest in the food at the moment and he was sure the note was from Lector…the envelope was high cotton-content linen blend and he couldn’t imagine who else it would be from. He knew he interested Lector greatly, just bringing him into the investigation would have done that…but there was obviously something about him that Lector found worth keeping a close eye on, and this was not a man that you wanted to attract the attention of…not someone you wanted in your head.

 

If he were honest with himself, he found Lector just as intriguing. A mind as sharp as a scalpel, and one of those precise, organized types that could find a paper written ten years ago after only a few minutes. Sherlock just couldn’t care to focus on things like physical organization…if he did his mental organization correctly, getting to his data was no problem at all. Chaos was just…more interesting. Entropy over order, unless it was the state of his mind and that was structure upon order. But Lector…with his ordered house, his ordered practice, his ordered kitchen…all that…order. A tight lid over an underlying, hard-wired chaos contained within. But the man himself was cool and collected—he understood why Lector’s patients found him so helpful. There was a silence in the center, a silence that listened and heard and understood, perhaps more than you understood yourself. And that was unsettling, because there were aspects of Sherlock that he himself just didn’t look at too closely. It was easier to accept and move on…his increasingly convoluted feelings about John, the look on Molly’s face when he said the wrong thing, his relationship with Mycroft…all complicated and ultimately, no steadfast resolution to any of them, which just made him more likely to shove them in a corner and not think about them too hard…ever. Get another case to focus and avoid thinking about the things that were confusing.

 

Lector was fascinating. Fascinating partly because Sherlock felt an unexpected interest in him—something about the eyes, and he way he held his mouth…his hands while he prepared his food so precisely and effortlessly…. But that flash of attraction was easily counterbalanced by the conclusion that Lector was very likely a serial killer as well, and definitely the most talented one Sherlock had ever met. A gifted psychiatrist, gifted chef, and gifted killer…just…fascinating. Looking at him was like looking at a shark—a death machine wrapped in grace and beauty.

 

Well, best see what the invitation was about—as it was surely an invitation.

 

“Dear Mr. Holmes,

I would like to assist your investigation in any way possible. I feel we covered most of what needed to be discussed in Will Graham’s investigation, but there are a few more details of which you should be aware. You are an interesting challenge to my culinary skills, and I enjoyed our conversation last evening. I realize your time here is limited, and I therefor offer an invitation for a light lunch at my home at 11:30 today. I have already notified Jack Crawford that I wish to speak to you. He has a meeting at that time, but will have a car ready for you at 11:00.

 

Most Sincerely,  
Hannibal Lector

 

Sherlock slammed back the tiny curl of fear that tried to nest in the primal spaces of his brain. If Lector was anything, he wasn’t an idiot. Sherlock would suffer no harm today. But at the same time, protecting John was paramount…he was not under any illusion that when this went down, Lector might run…and would likely have revenge on his mind. Revenge, or payback, or a “reckoning”—however it was looked at, John and Mary and the baby were the most vulnerable. Luckily, Sherlock had a brother who had been trying to outguess him every moment of his life, and he knew how to give information without really giving anything at all. For once, he was grateful to Mycroft for the years of training for this moment.

 

In the meantime. He reviewed the MRI from Will’s brain scan. It looked completely normal. However, Will’s brain was NOT normal. Dr. Bloom said that she had witnessed Will eating aspirin like candy to keep down his fever. She had seen him confused and disassociated, especially after the death of the killer Garrot Jacob Hobbs. And the doctor who oversaw this brain scan is conveniently, rather horribly deceased. But the technicians weren’t, and unless the scan was done under highly unusual circumstances, there would be technicians. Sherlock made some phone calls and reviewed the medical report. He called Jack Crawford’s office to get permission to have access to the technicians who attended the scan for questioning, and was told to stay by the phone. Twenty minutes later he was talking to Laura, who remembered attending the scan.

********************

“It was strange.” she mused. “I got the patient on the table, and positioned appropriately. I went through the checklist and everything. Dr. Sutcliff and Dr. Lector were chatting in the observation room. Usually I wait up there with them, but they asked me to stay in the room with Mr. Graham. I was verbally monitoring the patient, making sure he was comfortable—I could tell he was agitated, maybe a little afraid. I could see the observation room out of the corner of my eyes…the doctors were pointing at the monitor, and Dr. Lector was pointing out something and Dr. Sutcliff would nod in agreement. They appeared to be having a rather intense conversation, I’d say. After the procedure, I went up to the room to check the file for the scan and close down the room, and nothing was there…all the readouts, and the file containing the scan itself—well, you know that the hospital software automatically saves to the patient files now—all that information was gone. It’s like the scan never happened. I knew it was a favor for Dr. Lector, but I found it odd that there wasn’t going to be an appointment file created. I asked Dr. Sutcliff about it, but he said not to worry about it. Now I see that there is a file for the scan…but I know there wasn’t….” And her voice trailed off.

 

Sherlock considered what to ask.

 

“How long have you worked as a radiology technician, Laura?”

 

“About eleven years now, but only two here at this facility.”

 

“Since there is absolutely no way for us to know, I want you to use your experience to guide your answer to the next question. You won’t be quoted, or ever brought into any ensuing conversation. “Off the record”, as they say. And so my question is, Laura: Was this a normal brain scan, in your opinion?”

 

The woman paused, obviously re-thinking her observations. She replied carefully, but with conviction. “No. I would say not. In my experience, when I see medical doctors discussing a patient as I observed in that room, there is an abnormality. I’ve seen attendings leave during a boring scan. Both men were riveted on the monitor, and when they were talking, their eyes rarely left the screen. Of course, I wasn’t watching them constantly, you understand. But I’d still say no. It wasn’t a normal MRI.”

*********************

“Crawford.”

“Jack, its Sherlock. I need you to get another MRI for Will Graham.”

“Sherlock, he just had one. They really aren’t procedures that should be done often.’

“I understand that, but I have reason to believe the results may have been tampered with. I feel the 1% increase in the possibility of a brain tumor would be balanced out by the fact that he doesn’t go to jail for something he may not have done. Its *essential* that the attending doctor isn’t involved with the investigation, or better yet that is aware of anything about Will Graham. In fact, using a pseudonym for Will would be best. I’d like you to be there for it, either you or Dr. Bloom. Merely to observe, not in a diagnostic role.”

 

“I see.” Crawford paused. “As he ordered the first MRI, however, I feel Dr. Lector should be informed that you feel the data was compromised.”

 

“No one. Involved with the investigation. Other than you. Or possibly Dr. Bloom. Can know about this scan.”

The pause was longer this time. “I see.” Said Crawford again, though Sherlock doubted it, however Crawford wasn’t dumb and he’d likely put two and two together eventually. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“I’d appreciate it Jack.”

 

There was another pause. “You don’t think he did it. You are thinking its actually possible Will was set up. After he vomited up an EAR from a VICTIM.” Crawford’s frustration was showing.

 

“Get that scan, Jack. As soon as you can, if possible. And use a random, reasonable sounding alias for Will when you make that appointment. I must insist on his anonymity.”

 

“Right. I’ll be in touch.” There was a heavy sigh—nobody ever said being a director of the behavioral sciences unit at the FBI was going to be an easy job—and the line disconnected.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was waiting outside at 11:00 when the sleek understated FBI car arrived. He let himself into the back seat, and started to prepare.

 

Lector was all graciousness when he escorted Sherlock into his home for the second time in 24 hours.

 

“You can make yourself at home. Let me take your coat. Would you like me to tell the driver to come back when we call?”

 

“Oh, thank you but no. I have an appointment at 1:30, he may as well wait.”

 

Lector’s brows drew down ever so slightly…more a twitch than an actual movement. “Of course. I wasn’t aware you had any afternoon appointments.” The slightly petulant tone of this remark was so mild as to be almost missed, but it was there.

 

“I apologize…being an indifferent eater, myself, I now realize I should have called to inform you. I have another meeting with Dr. Bloom this afternoon, then the lab orderlies at the FBI. I hope this doesn’t compromise your plans.”

 

“Of course not, we’re almost ready as it is. I kept it light, and of a vegetarian variety, which is against my nature, but the guest’s palate must be paramount. Crawford didn’t tell me we had a time limit to our visit.” Lector smiled from those hooded eyes, and for all appearances it was a genuine one. Sherlock again felt that pull…the pull of the thought of “one more hit”, of “just this once”…dangerous and intoxicating…and excitingly familiar. Both of them equals in their own games, and both in their prime—this was going to be a battle fought by masters of wordsmithing and subterfuge, and Sherlock was pretty sure the battlefield was his psyche, with John’s life going to the victor.

 

He smiled at Lector, probably nowhere near as convincingly. “Well, by all means, then. Let’s begin.” Lector’s smile at that was simply unsettling. Damn.

 

Once again, Sherlock found himself at the marble island, watching Lector prepare food as if he were performing a dance. Power, and grace, and not a small amount of arrogance. In the back of his mind, Sherlock heard John “…putting your collar up, looking all cool…” and could acknowledge, here and now to himself, that of course there WAS a bit of “presence” one had to draw to oneself in such situations…and he saw the same type of performance now. Without Crawford to goggle, and exclaim, and appreciate, Sherlock thought the conversation would be stilted, but Lector was a master.

 

“So, Sherlock, I am embarrassed to admit I have “googled” you to find out about your unique vision. I will be honest…I found your companion’s blog much easier to digest than your own writing. I feel that is likely due to your focus…I participate in exploration of the mind, while you, due to the nature of your work, focus on physical minutiae. Dr. Watson’s blog is a testimony to the strength of your relationship. He passes along the extraordinary flexibility of your mind, filtered through a style that makes those incredible deductions available to everyman. Tell me, when did you meet?” It was lob, tossed out over eyes that appeared lazy, unless you’ve ever seen a cat waiting for a gopher to pop out of a drainpipe.

 

Sherlock smiled easy and genially. “John does make me accessible to the masses. It’s both a blessing and a curse, I’m sure you can imagine. I had mentioned in passing to someone at Barts…St. Barts, a hospital in London where I access a lab (all common knowledge, so far) that I needed a flatmate. He happened to run into a friend also looking for a flat, and thus, through mutual friends, John and I were acquainted. I’m sure there are days he wishes he picked a different path in the park on that fateful day.” A flat smile, and not to change the subject too rapidly…throw a bone. “He and his wife are due in a couple weeks with their first child. I imagine the blog will slow considerably.”

 

“Does it bother you? To have that relationship overshadowed by another?” A sheepish grin appeared immediately “I apologize…it’s often hard to “turn off” the part of me that enjoys finding out about how others’ minds operate.”  But the eyes were very keen on Sherlock’s face.

 

Now care was needed. To deny it would be lying, and Lector would know. Mix truths with lies, then. “I miss the intensity of the friendship, of course. And having a doctor there when I check victims keeps me from mixing with those who aren’t fond of my…personality quirks (a lure…he’s much rather focus the discussion on himself). But I am fond of Mary, she makes John happy and seems happy to let him follow me around when needed. Relationships are often difficult for me to maneuver anyway, thus the change in my friendship with John is to be expected.” Expected, but unwanted…like a phantom limb that itched and burned but wasn’t there to touch. And touching John…touching John was not something Sherlock ever allowed himself to think about.

 

“I admit, I occasionally wondered myself if your relationship was more…involved…than let on. It was certainly implied often enough.” And now those shark eyes were focused and terribly sharp before they switched to watch the final food preparation.

 

Sherlock managed what he hoped was a rueful laugh “People do little else but talk, I find. And often in talking, their two and two comes up with five, or six, or whatever pleases them.” He and John, racing through London in handcuffs, laughing hysterically in the flat, the look on John’s face when he saw Irene alive…when he was at Sherlock’s grave…no. No, now is not the time. The pause had gone too long, Lector wasn’t filling up the silence. Damn. “I miss him. Of course.” He said simply. Then a stroke of genius “I’ve had my brother Mycroft helping me out more when needed, and there are some technicians at the hospital who show some promise.” He squinted as if thinking…”There’s an ER tech who has caught my eye…seems to keep a cool head and makes logical deductions when he’s doing intake.” He let himself trail off, as if he possibly appreciated more than the tech’s “deduction skills”. He only let his focus wander briefly before snapping back to Lector…perfect.

 

Something in Lector relaxed slightly. The glare off his smile seemed less…fraught. “Life moves on…for us all, doesn’t it, Sherlock?   And speaking of moving on, let’s retreat to the dining room, shall we?”

 

Sherlock was happy with the move—he had to admit the dining room was extraordinary. And it felt more…diffused than the kitchen, though it would be a mistake to let his guard down. He quickly constructed his newly “discovered” ER tech in case Lector asked, and geared up for Round 2.

 

The meal was, Sherlock supposed, exquisite. Far fancier than his usual fish and chips, or take away Chinese. Even he could tell the tea served was something far beyond the usual bags-in-a-box that he brewed…for god’s sake Lector warmed the teapot with boiling water before dumping out the water and refilling it with water “Just off boil”. By the end of the meal, was hoping he’d never have to step into a five-star restaurant. Ever. Conversation was still light, the penetrating glare had gone from Lector’s eyes and he appeared to be less on guard. He asked about some of Sherlock’s cases, obviously ones he had read about on John’s blog, and Sherlock found himself enjoying the retelling, giving details that John had glossed over, details that Lector understood the significance of and nodded appreciatively at the fact that Sherlock noticed them. He soon found himself discussing minutiae of some of his murder investigations…where the perpetrator had mis-stepped and gotten himself caught. Lector’s eyes were avid on Sherlock’s, now…gaze penetrating and gleaming. At one point, he even reached forward and tapped Sherlock’s knee when making a point.

 

And by the time he had a snifter of brandy in his hand, in Lector’s richly decorated office, surrounded by the smell of books and leather, Sherlock realized he’d been played. Beautifully. Lector had found his point “in”, and Sherlock had found it so disarming to discuss these things with an intellectual equal that he failed to remember that he was speaking to the man he was quite sure had not only had raised serial killing to an art form, but also allowed a man he was genuinely fond of to go on being ill (if Sherlock’s guess was correct) and, last but not least, let Graham take the blame for his murders as well (Again, if Sherlock was reading things properly…and let’s face it, odds were in his favor.). And Lector LIKED Will. This man was just as twisted as Moriarity, if not more so--just far far less dramatic about it. The Ice Queen versus the Drama Queen, and “queen” indeed as the signals Sherlock was getting were becoming decidedly more obvious as they moved into the study. Something in this room excited Lector, Sherlock was sure of it. Either an object, or a memory of this room had turned Lectors thoughts from murder to something more…exciting. Or, perhaps they were one and the same for him. Sherlock was slightly discomforted in that he understood Lector far more on that point than he was willing to admit, though he would be fair to himself and say his interest was due to the puzzle contained within the dead bodies, not the bodies themselves.

 

The reality was, Sherlock just simply was not interested, nor did he have the patience for this right now, but he felt it was absolutely necessary for this fact not to reveal itself to Lector. Perhaps a subtle play of interest would fully distract the man from John. Then again, he may simply see through Sherlock’s ploy, or assume his show of interest was well-nigh irresistible. Sherlock was behind the ball here and he knew it. Well, he only had to play the game for a while longer…20 minutes to be precise, and then it was likely Lector was out of his life forever. Hopefully forever.

 

He stood, rather abruptly, smiling to Lector as he did so “I apologize, I’m dying for a stretch—between the flight and going over cases, I’ve been far less active than I’m accustomed to being…I’m often walking the streets of London –dramatically, John likes to say.” (he almost bit his tongue off at that mention). He wandered over to the ladder that allowed access to the upper library, feeling Hannibal’s eyes on him. His instincts were screaming not to turn his back on this man but he had just mentioned John and he’d distract Lector any way possible. The ladder was richly polished dark wood--it felt both smooth as silk and undeniably solid under Sherlock’s hand. With a stir of air and very little other warning, Lector was behind him. Close behind him. Too close for Sherlock to even turn around. There was the slightest hint of an intake of breath, and the presence stepped away and Sherlock swung around, physically uncomfortable and simultaneously crushing the panic trying to rise in his limbic system. .

 

“I apologize.” Lector murmured, from still far too close for Sherlock’s comfort. “I couldn’t let you leave without experiencing your cologne up close. I should have asked.” He bowed slightly as if that were going to make it all better. Ah, no. He knew it wouldn’t. Going through the pretense. Sherlock stared at him warily--completely justifiably, he felt.

 

“Dolce and Gabanna. Quite common, I’m afraid.” Christmas gift, from John. The year they met. This was his second bottle. He’d bought it himself after the gift bottle was gone. One afternoon, shortly after he ran out, he had walked past John in the flat, then immediately realized he left his phone on his dresser and turned quickly back around—just catching the subtle tilt of John’s head and the slight nostril flare as he sniffed the draft of air following Sherlock, perhaps even unconsciously checking for the scent of the cologne he had bought him, the slight furrowing of the brow when he didn’t detect it. Sherlock hit a store before lunch for a new bottle.

 

Lector didn’t move back an inch, and Sherlock was sure he actually leaned slightly toward him. Subtle as a fist to the jaw. “I find I often miss some of the better mass-market colognes. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a snob in that regard.” At this, Sherlock lifted an eyebrow ironically—he was who he was, after all. Lector affected not to notice. “I tend to prefer to mix my own. There is a perfumery here in London that has been very helpful. When they don’t have my current…interests…I travel to Paris. It’s a small indulgence I enjoy. And what’s life worth, if one can’t …indulge.” At this, he stepped forward again, toward Sherlock—who had nowhere to go with the ladder pressing into his spine and Lector pressing into his sensibilities.   “Do you…indulge…Sherlock?”

 

He faced off with Lector, both much of the same height, and dropped all pretense of flirting or interest. He allowed the cold, analytical, brilliant Self to rise. Lector met his eyes and something in him faltered just slightly, almost gone before Sherlock registered it. “The last time I “indulged”, I found myself in rehab. I no longer waste my time on petty indulgences, Dr. Lector.” He deliberately brought his arm up to check the time, dismissing Lector despite his persistence in invading Sherlock’s space. Lector was getting angry—his body tensing, breathing patterns changing. But Sherlock had five minutes to go, and that was close enough for him. He met Lector’s eyes lazily “Excuse me, Doctor. While it’s certainly been interesting to get to know you better, I see that my next appointment is close at hand and I must get going if I’m to stay on schedule. If you could be so kind as to locate my coat for me…” he trailed off. Now two spots had arisen on Lector’s cheeks, and a small twitch in his left eye let Sherlock know that Lector was not a man used to being dismissed. Not the most cautious approach, to be certain, but he had had enough of the games.

 

Lector didn’t move for a moment. Then he seemed to remember himself…or remember that his guest had a car waiting and a director in the FBI with full awareness of his whereabouts. He stepped back, and with the movement his grace and veneer of normalcy and professionalism fell back into place with an almost audible “whump”. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, of course. My apologies for keeping you, but I certainly enjoyed our visit.”

 

After a few more socially appropriate but completely insincere yammerings about “a delicious meal” and “come back if you’re back in the States” Sherlock was out the door, in fresh air and sunshine. And alive. The black sedan was waiting.

 

*****************

He was brought back to Crawford’s office. The man looked grim.

 

“How did you know?”

 

Sherlock didn’t bother feigning ignorance. “It was a suspicion. Something wasn’t adding up, and I was even more suspicious after talking to the technician that was on hand that day. What did they find out?”

 

“Some form of encephalitis…can’t remember which one. He’ll likely recover, but will always have some unpleasant physical ramifications.” He was silent for quite some time. Sherlock let him work it through, though he suspected Crawford was already forming the conclusion that was clear as day to Sherlock—he was a smart man, he just didn’t want to be coming to the conclusion he was being forced to see. He rubbed his hands over his face wearily, glaring at Sherlock through his fingers. “He’ll run. Did he know, this morning, when you saw him?”

 

“I don’t know. I didn’t pander to him, if that’s what you mean, but neither did I make any accusations nor ask any leading questions. You should know he was expressing interest in me, on a personal level. I’m not sure if it was a power play or actual attraction…likely a combination.” He sighed, coming clean. “I feel like he knew I was suspicious.”

 

Crawford looked at him blearily. Sherlock estimated it had been at least a week since he had had a reasonable nights’ sleep. “I have a flight scheduled for you for tomorrow at 9:30. There’s really no reason for you to stay. Your help has been…well. I’m not sure how long it would have taken us to figure it out on our own.”

 

Sherlock hesitated, no way to soften this…"Crawford. You need to know…I’m fairly certain he’s eating them.”

 

Crawford blanched. “Eating them? Eating his VICTIMS?” He went from pale to completely colorless…then lurched up from his chair. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Sherlock…the dinners….” He moved faster than Sherlock thought a man his size could move, but it wasn’t fast enough. He vomited in the paper recycling bin near the copy machine, in the path to the restroom. Sherlock stepped out to give him some privacy, and bought him a water at a vending machine to give a reason for his discreet exit. Crawford accepted it gratefully.

 

“You have a car waiting for you out front. It will return to your hotel tomorrow to take you to the airport. We need to take things from here…I’ll be in touch with Mycroft. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help, here. You’ve saved a good man…. I…I’m very fond of Will. I thought I had pushed him so hard he snapped. So…thank you. Again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

 

Sherlock handed him a file folder with a few sheets of paper in it. “I was glad I could be of help. Here are my notes on discrepancies and things I found interesting in my file review and during interviews that may be useful.” Crawford looked wrecked. John would interject something here that was appropriate and sympathetic….”I’m sorry, Crawford. I know you counted Lector as a friend. This must be difficult.” There. That should be pretty good. Yes, it was, Crawford looked a bit lighter. He didn’t say anything though…just shook Sherlock’s hand and headed out the door and down the hallway.

 

*********************

Back in “his” sedan, heading to the case room for some finishing up and packing. His phone beeped, text. He suddenly realized he hadn’t heard from John since…in over 24 hours…and panic hit hard along with the dull ache of, once again, failing the one person who never failed him. He took a deep breath before thumbing open the message.

 

John 14:25

Sherlock. Things…things are not good. Can you come? I need you.

 

Almost simultaneously:

 

Mycroft 14:25

Sherlock, there’s a private jet waiting for you at Dulles. Your driver is being notified now.

 

And indeed the driver was obviously listening to his earpiece and glanced back at Sherlock. “Sir, we’re five minutes from your room. We might as well stop there so you can gather your things. I’ll wait for you at the front and we’ll head immediately to the airport.”

 

Me 14:28

John. What’s wrong?

 

John 14:29:

Everything. I can’t…everything. Please.

 

Me 14:30:

Hang on John, I’m leaving now.

 

Sherlock was less than 2 minutes in his room and was over the ocean in less than 30.

 

Home. Home to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I contemplate how long it took me to get this ready to my satisfaction, I got an even better appreciation for the work that many of you do. I had fun, hope you did as well...that's why we're all here!


End file.
